Free A Good Divorce by John E. Keegan Page A

strange man to the house. I wrote down the license numbers of cars parked near the house so that I could track them down later through the State Patrol. I slouched in the seat to make my car look unoccupied.
    One night after I’d worked late someone in a black VW bug parked in front just as I turned onto the street, walked up the stairs in a hurry, and disappeared into the house before I could get a good look. A light went off in the kitchen and then someone pulled the drapes in the living room. Finally, there was a fly in the trap.
    I took the keys from the ignition, got out of the car and closed the door quietly. There was no alley so I figured the best way to approach was from the Sweets’ house next door. The Sweets’ children had grown up and moved out but Mrs. Sweet still baked cookies and strudel that she shared with us. Every Saturday, Mr. Sweet mowed and edged his lawn, swept the walks and stretched the hose down to the street to wash his car. They loved our kids and sometimes took them to church. We’d stopped organized religion when Bobby Kennedy was assassinated.
    I took the Sweets’ walkway, which was leafless and clean as washed stones. It rose five or six steps, then ramped parallel to the slope, where there was another set of steps, then a switchback, and finally I was at the top. The grass was damp and slippery under my wingtips as I moved across the lawn toward the flower beds and fence that divided our lots. My shoes sunk into the softness of the peaty soil in the planter strip. Mr. Sweet used to always lean over the fence while I was working on one of the kid’s bicycles and volunteer lawn and garden tips. He was a strong advocate of steer manure and turned truckloads of the putrid stuff into his beds every year. That’s why his roses exploded and ours looked like stillborn boutonnieres.
    I tip-toed along the fence, checking the Sweets’ windows for any sign of movement. Their bedroom faced our house and they had a good view into our backyard from the window where their corpulent Siamese cat used to sit. When I stepped onto the lower cross board and lifted my leg over the fence, the pickets stabbed me in the butt. I didn’t want to rip my suit but I couldn’t touch ground on the other side and tried to estimate the distance. In Quincy, Patty Petty’s dad had caught me and Strawberry Nelson in the same position the night we tried to spy on her. When he flipped on the floodlight, he had us sighted between the barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun.
    I finally leapt as high as I could, trying to create enough arc to clear the pickets. Magpie barked from the back bedroom upstairs and I flattened myself against the side of the house. No lights came on. I was at the back wall of the house, just under the kitchen sink, and with my left hand I could feel the outdoor faucet. I reached for the windowsill and, with one foot on the pipe, pulled myself up to look into the kitchen. The stove light illuminated spilled Cheerios and dirty aluminum trays on the counter. I could hear Jude laughing. Maybe she and her caller were having a drink in the dining room to loosen things up. Jude kept a bottle of Stolichnaya in the freezer, something she said her grandma used to do, so she could drink it straight up in a martini glass without ice. The alcohol kept it from freezing, one more of Jude’s little secrets that she could now share with the male universe.
    I tried to guess who was making her laugh. I would have said Charlie Johnson, except he’d never be caught in a VW. Or maybe she’d followed up on the volleyball player. He’d drive a bug; he loved to cram himself into things that were too tight. More likely it was one of her ACLU friends, who all drove old VWs and Datsuns as a matter of principle.
    This was perverse. Jude and I were finished. What was the point of catching her balling some guy? It would disintegrate whatever residue of affection remained between us.